


Still time for hope

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2017 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hope, Panic, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: It had been sheer luck they’d been in the basement instead of the upper floors; good luck because they’re somehow safe, bad luck because they couldn’t get out.





	Still time for hope

**Author's Note:**

> For the "trapped together" square on my hc_bingo card.

Jason is unconscious and Bruce shouldn’t be thankful for that but he kind of is. An unconscious Jason gives him a chance to check his injuries - not reassuring, especially not when he couldn’t remove the helmet or armour for fear of triggering one of the Red Hood’s many booby traps - and the quiet to just sit and think for a second. Making sure Jason is okay is priority number one, but to properly do that he needs to make sure they can get out of here. Which is easier said than done.

There’s a single shard of bitter morning light trickling through the twisted, groaning metal and crumbling cement that makes up the roof of the small pocket of debris they’re trapped in. Even if the opening were bigger, Bruce isn’t sure he’d try hooking a grapple onto anything up there to try and pull them out. Alone, it would be risky. But with Jason’s added weight? 

No. Not worth the risk of burying them alive.

(And the thought of Jason buried alive… Again. God. It makes him feel sick.)

Which could still happen, if help doesn’t arrive soon. He has no idea how much weight is resting on top of the unstable remains of what had been the building’s basement. No idea how much time they have. Probably not as much as he’d like if that shard of light really is Gotham’s attempt at early morning sun.

It had been sheer luck they’d been in the basement instead of the upper floors; good luck because they’re somehow safe, bad luck because they couldn’t get out. The bomb that brought the building down must have had some kind of EMP in it because his comm. is dead. He just hopes Oracle knows his last GPS location and is sending the others to find them. Hopes they can get to them through the debris. Hopes they haven’t already combed the building, calling out and getting no response during the time Bruce was knocked out. It’s way too much hoping for a man who relies on practical plans and hard evidence.

There’s a muffled groan beside him and Bruce abandons his hunt for weaknesses in the debris to crouch over his son and gently press his shoulders back against the dusty concrete when he tries to sit up. “Don’t move,” he orders, worry and frustration hardening his voice. “You’re hurt.”

There’s an electronic grumble of “no shit, ow” and then Jason is swatting his hand away so he can reach up and take off his helmet. He tosses it away with one hand and Bruce finally gets a look at his son’s face. Sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead and there’s a dark bruise blossoming across his right cheekbone. It could almost be Robin after a hard patrol if not for the shadow of stubble on his jaw and the tight lines around his eyes. His son looks much too life-wearied for an almost twenty-one year old. The way Bruce’s heart clenches at that realisation feels a lot like guilt.

"What happened?” Jason asks, voice deep and confused without the helmet’s modulator. Teal eyes flicker over Bruce’s face before moving past him to take in the chunks of concrete and steel boxing them in. Even if Bruce didn’t have two fingers over the pulse point on his wrist, he’s sure he’d be able to pick the exact moment Jason’s heart rate picks up. His eyes go wide and he tries to sit up but Bruce keeps a hand on his chest to stop him.

“You need to stay calm.”

“Fuck you,” Jason snaps, but it’s automatic, reflex. He goes completely still, save for the rapid expanding and contracting of his chest beneath Bruce’s hand. Each inhale is almost a gasp, sucking in too much oxygen too quickly.

“Jay- Jason, look at me,” Bruce orders. He waits for his son to reluctantly meet his eyes before continuing, “Breathe with me.”

Jason sucks in a breath through his nose and holds it for only two seconds of Bruce’s measured count of three. It comes out in a quick, frantic whoosh. He shakes his head, voice rising with panic, “I can’t-” _Gasp_. “B-”

"Yes, you can,” Bruce says firmly. Another agitated head shake and he softens his voice, almost pleading, “Come on, kid, let’s try it again.”

“Not a kid,” Jason gets out.

_You’re my kid_ , Bruce wants to argue. But keeping Jason calm is priority number one and saying what he wants to say will not achieve that. Instead, Bruce grabs Jason’s hand, almost as big as his own these days, and holds it to his chest. “Focus on me, okay? Don’t think about-” tight spaces, exploded buildings, graves “-anything except the air going in and out of your lungs.”

Another tense ninety seconds and Jason’s breathing has finally evened out. The space they’re trapped in is narrow, with sides that slope upwards to what could be an even narrower opening. Bruce has to bend his neck forward even sitting down to avoid hitting his head on any of the jagged debris. It’s awkward, barely enough space for them to move around, but he manages to shift them enough that he’s sitting at one corner with Jason’s head in his lap. It’s a strategic move, better to lean against the more stable remains of the basement than the collapsed debris, he tells himself, rehearses the words so he can deliver them flawlessly if Jason protests. 

“Just try to stay still,” he says. “Help is coming.”

_I hope._

“Don’t touch me,” Jason rasps when Bruce begins a gentle but methodical examination of his injuries. He pushes Bruce’s hands away. “I’m fine. Don’t need your fussing, old man.”

“You’re injured,” Bruce points out with a frown. He doesn’t mention that he’s pretty sure he’s got a few cracked ribs and deep-tissue bruising himself. No need to incite an argument about hypocrisy when they could spend their breath on much better things. Things like plans to get out of here.

(Things like final words.)

Jason snorts, pushes his hands away again when Bruce tries to check for any bumps on his head. “Hate to break it to you, B, but a few cuts and bruises are going to be the least of our problems if your birds don’t find you soon.”

_Your brothers. Find us._ Bruce shouldn’t have to correct him; he thought they were doing better. Thought he was doing better, not driving Jason away, getting across how much he cares. Jason had come home for Christmas last year, he’d patrolled with Dick a few times, worked a case with Tim last month, gone to one of Cass’s ballet recitals, agreed to babysit Damian next Thursday. They’re finally getting somewhere close to being a family. Call him selfish, but Bruce doesn’t want to lose that.

“We’re going to get out of here, Jay,” he promises.

Jason laughs, short and biting. “Yeah.” It doesn’t sound like agreement.


End file.
